


Ever Constant, Always Variable

by dendriax



Series: variable constant [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Magic, Coming Out, Do-Over, Fate, Free Will, Homophobia, M/M, Magical Realism, Marathon Sex, Overdosing, Slice of Life, Time Travel Fix-It, Unreliable Narrator, in case anyone needs to know that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 08:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18495007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriax/pseuds/dendriax
Summary: They say history will keep repeating itself until you learn your lessons.Kent knows it's bull$#!+.Or: The trials and tribulations of doing things differently (but not necessarily smarter).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So like, Magic AU where people have specific abilities?
> 
> Like, I came tumbling into this fandom because of Holsom and have since stayed because of NurseyDex. And when I saw the pics of the frogs that have Chowder with sharks, Nursey with leaves and Dex with red lobsters, I immediately thought starter pokemons! So I set out to write a crack fic with lines like "Nursey, use leaf storm!" and "You're not a pokemon, Nurse. Stop calling out your own attacks!" and titled "Like no one ever was".
> 
> I seriously don't know what happened.

Kent wakes up in an unfamiliar bed alone, with sheets tangled around his naked form and no Jack in sight.

The bed on Jack's side is cold when he rolls over, so he retreats back and reaches for his phone. It's still the middle of the night, his phone advises, which makes him frown, wondering where Jack has gone to. They're supposed to fly out to Montreal at ass o'clock in the morning, of today.

Stretching and yawning hugely, he moves to get up and prepares for a possible trek to locate and haul back Jack. It'll be a long day for them to have to face. Not only that, it'll be the beginning of their careers, the start of a new chapter of their lives, their long-awaited dream that's about to come true. They're getting drafted into the NHL, after all.

A little over a month ago, they won the Memorial Cup, reached the highest fucking peak of major junior hockey. And in a tangle of limbs the morning after, they made plans to enjoy it together. They've been aware there are only thirty-four days to enjoy it, their last hurrah, before everything changes, because there's no way they're not gonna make the big show. Everything is gonna change.

Still, some of their last hurrah had to be spent at the Combine. And they've been training, of course, as their conditioning is no joke. But these last few days have been their little private getaway. They have had plane tickets for a flight to the draft and a plan to head toward the general direction of one particular airport in Quebec City. Quebec City, because they didn't want to stay in Montreal or stray too far from where the draft will be held and Quebec City has lots of National Historic Sites. Jack's a giant nerd, really.

He's about to go out into the corridor -- having equipped himself with his phone and keycard and, unfortunately, clothes -- before noticing there's faint light coming out from under the bathroom door. He figures he should turn it off. The hotel is a little run-down. He should help whoever owns it save some money on electric bill.

For a stupid split second, Kent wonders what Jack was doing falling asleep on a not-so-clean-looking bathroom floor, thinking he's never gonna let Jack live it down.

Then it fucking hits him. Jack is unconscious, pale, and on the floor of a bathroom. There's a bottle of pills.

Kent just finds Jack unconscious and, let's face it, not very alive-looking, on the floor of a shitty hotel bathroom with an almost empty bottle of pills.

An incapacitated moment of gaping and panicking later, Kent manages to pull himself together and dials 911.

He's riding on the ambulance with Jack when it occurs to him that he needs to call Bob and Alicia. He only croaks out a few words. Jack. The name of the hospital. The wailing siren is pretty indicative.

The medical staff tell him to wait in the off-white lobby and keep telling him they're doing their best and they will tell him as soon as they have something they can tell him.

It's hours before Bob and Alicia arrive and by that time, Kent's finished dissolving into a useless fucking mess.

Alicia hugs him, even though Kent smells like puke and sweat, even though Kent's the one who've let this happen to her only son. She's crying and she should go see Jack, but instead she's here hugging Kent.

Kent says he's sorry, and offers no excuse because there's none. He should've known. These past however many months Kent has been the person closest to Jack. Together they went through the grind of the playoffs, through blood and sweat and tears, and they won. The Memorial Cup is theirs and Kent gets to share it with Jack. And then the last thirty-four days of bliss that have been the happiest time of Kent's life, those thirty-four days that Kent should have noticed something hasn't been right.

Bob tells Kent he should go to the draft and, before Kent can protest, keeps giving him more and more reasons for him to be there.

Kent goes to Montreal and goes through the motions of saying and doing what everyone expects him to. He might be a lot out of his mind but the same thing can be said for everyone waiting to be drafted. He's not sure when but somewhere along the line, saying how happy and excited and grateful he is while smiling and getting cameras shoved into his face have become second nature to him.

Kent's drafted first overall by the Las Vegas Aces and it's not the highlight of his day.

No, the highlight of his day is afterward when he calls Jack and Jack answers.

"Congrats," is the first word out of Jack's mouth and--

"Fuck you," Kent says, heartfelt, and then proceeds to cry in the empty hallway he's managed to secure for the occasion.

There's still shit he needs to do but fuck if Kent cares. Jack's way more important. So he looks up flights and then pales because Kent's a lot of things and broke is definitely one of them. Kent doesn't ask people for money, but he calls Bob from where he's still slumping against a wall in that same hallway after telling Jack he'll be there, and prepares himself to leave a very awkward voicemail about how the Zimmermanns may hate him now but he really needs to be with Jack.

To his surprise, Bob picks up and, after hearing Kent's not very reasonable and a lot incoherent request, promptly says yes.

His flight gets rerouted because of a rogue thunderstorm that shuts down all the flights but damn it, Kent will get to Jack even if it kills him.

His rental never makes it to the hospital.

-

Kent jerks awake, realizes he's tangled with Jack and holds on to him for dear life, muttering to himself that what he just wakes up from is just a really long, really fucked-up dream.

Jack stirs, and the moment his eyes meet Kent's a sleepy-teary smile lights Jack's whole face. "You're here," Jack whispers as he wraps his arms and snuggles his whole body around Kent's own smaller frame.

Kent, for his part, doesn't answer and tries his best to bury himself into Jack, wondering what day it is. It was a fucking long-ass dream and, honestly, he'd take getting shut out in game seven any day, hell, he'd even take getting swept in the finals if it means Jack'll continue being here and not unconscious and dead-looking on a cold floor somewhere.

As it turns out, it's the day after Memorial Cup celebration, his body's still buzzing from the win. And wow, that fucking dream spanned more than over a month. Kent blames the champagne, maybe. His body isn't used to non-shitty non-cheap-ass booze.

The first week, he thinks about bringing it up, asking Jack if he's okay, if there's something Kent can do. But this is not a repeat of last time. No, that's not right. There's no last time and what the fuck that was was just a fucked-up dream. They went to a lake in that dream and they are currently at a different lake, one they hadn't gone to before.

Jack talks the same way and acts the same way. He smiles and he laughs and looking at him is still a lot like looking directly at the sun, except Kent's retina will not be harmed. And Kent chalks the dream up to being a result of his pre-draft nervousness.

If Kent makes sure they go to the beach, too, it's just because he appreciates the aesthetics of Jack in beachwear and crashing salty waves.

The night before the draft, it happens again, out of nowhere. Kent finds Jack on the floor in a hotel bathroom. It's a different hotel but an equally shitty one. The pill bottle is the same one, Kent thinks.

Jack being pale and unconscious and looking like he's either dead or dying is... Fuck.

Almost the same things happen but in a different setting. Kent makes the calls, rides the ambulance. Alicia hugs him. Bob tries to convince him to get drafted without Jack.

But Kent doesn't go to the draft. Prophetic dreams are not unheard of.

Jack, when he finally wakes up, looks very surprised to see that Kent's there and, after gawking for a few seconds, asks Kent why Kent's there.

'Fuck you' is on the tip of Kent's tongue, but he's so, so tired and all he wants to do is curl himself around Jack and never let him go, which he can't do because of all the tubes and needles and beeping machines.

Hand holding seems inadequate but it's better than nothing.

Jack keeps asking him why he didn't go get drafted. Kent keeps holding Jack's relatively warm hand and reminding himself that Jack's still here, that Kent got to him in time, that there's no lasting damage, that Jack will be okay.

-

Kent wakes up and Jack isn't there.

He goes to check the bathroom and... No Jack.

Kent starts panicking before he even realizes it's the same shitty bathroom from the second time he found Jack unconscious. Scratch that, from the second time he dreamed he found Jack unconscious, because that must have also been a dream. Because Jack must have just gotten hungry and wandered out to get food without wanting to wake Kent up or something. And in response to not having Jack near his person, Kent's sleeping unconscious mind must have freaked out and brought up a repeat of that fucking long-ass dream for the second time.

Then it occurs to him that he hasn't even checked the beds -- beds, plural, because plausible deniability. Kent can't believe his first instinct was to check the bathroom. Maybe Kent had kicked Jack in his sleep and Jack just went to sleep in the other bed.

Jack's not in either of the beds, so Kent starts checking every horizontal surface in the room, including behind the curtains and under the beds but not including any balcony because there's no balcony, and... Still, no Jack.

It takes an embarrassing while and him debating whether he should call 911 just in case before he remembers he hasn't even thought of calling Jack yet. So he finds his phone, hits call, and curses as it immediately goes to voicemail.

Maybe this is also a dream. He considers getting back in bed just to see if he can sleep through his third-worst dream ever and is about to let out a scream when he sees Jack's phone sitting innocently on the nightstand on the far side of the far bed.

Jack's phone's dead, a fact that Kent tries not to read too much into and distracts himself from by occupying himself with the task of locating the charger.

A while later, Kent ventures out into the corridor outside the room, then to the lobby. The guy at the front desk says he hasn't seen anyone fitting Kent's description walk by.

Kent decides to just go sleep it off and wait to wake up for real. On his trip back to the room, Kent notices a door down the hallway that looks dissimilar to the others.

'No fucking way,' Kent thinks to himself as he stops in front of it and then curses again when the knob turns without resistance.

He takes a deep breath and whisks the door open.

It's a linen closet, with shelves full of blankets and towels and pillowcases.

And there, on the floor, is Jack.

Jack's in the closet. Kent doesn't know if he should laugh or cry.

He does neither, and dials 911.

This time, when they let him in to see Jack, a strong urge to say 'Fuck you' is still there, but what comes out instead is "I love you."

-

Kent wakes up and, surprisingly, Jack is there, all warm with his arms wrapped around Kent and not even dead-looking. Of course Jack's there. Where else would he be? Those were all just abominable fucking dreams. The hospital being the same one in the last two times doesn't mean anything except Kent has a shitty imagination.

Kent makes sure to charge both of their phones and stay awake for the rest of the night. He doesn't even mind when he realizes it's the third time that he's woken up in this particular shitty hotel room.

They fly to Montreal.

He falls asleep on the plane and curses loudly when he comes to. But Jack's there beside him so, in a moment of unfounded religiousness, Kent crosses his heart, with his fingers crossed, just in case.

They get separated at the draft in a sea of ravenous reporters. Kent doesn't know where Jack's gone to. The reporters aren't any help.

As he's giving out run-of-the-mill answers, his mind wanders to the possibility that all that's been happening might not be just some fucked-up dreams. So then he tells the interviewers he needs to go explore some bathrooms.

Kent finds Jack, unconscious and dead-looking, in a mostly clean bathroom stall that Kent has to climb to get into.

He doesn't even have to think about going through with the draft as he goes get a cab to follow Jack -- no room left in the ambulance since both Bob and Alicia are there.

Sitting in an uncomfortable chair waiting in an unfamiliar hospital lobby, he wonders, morbidly, if they'd cancel the draft if some draft-hopeful, say, shot himself in the head right on the fucking stand.

The first thing Jack does after he wakes up is asking how the draft went.

The second thing Jack does is looking very dejected after hearing Kent's "I don't know and I don't fucking care."

-

Kent wakes up beside Jack during their flight to Montreal. He needs to stop this temporal two-steps-forward-one-step-back thing soon.

At the draft, Kent doesn't leave Jack's side. Jack looks extra jittery, like, more jittery than the jitteriness of every draft-hopeful combined.

Jack spews the contents of his stomach at some blob of reporters.

The Aces prove to comprise solely of fucking idiots, because why else would they choose Kent over Jack.

Kent tries to hold in profanities, makes his way to the stage, puts on the Aces jersey and baseball cap, shakes hands with the GM and other representatives, smiles for the cameras, and is led to a backstage room to wait for Jack and whoever gets picked third so they can pose for the traditional, god-awful draft pictures.

He's glad to be right in thinking that no other team is fucking dumb enough to pick anyone over Jack.

Kent waits until the fourth overall shows up before embarking upon his quest to locate Jack.

It's a different bathroom this time, but Jack's still unconscious and dead-looking all the same.

'Typical,' Kent thinks, his hand that's not on Jack's pulse point already shakily dialing 911.

-

The sixth time it happens, Kent starts to think there's a chance that he might be going crazy.

Bob has the same expression on his face as the last time Kent followed them to the hospital without getting drafted.

Surely, there are moments in everyone's life when you wish you could have a do-over. Kent knows the feeling well. After all, he plays hockey.

He's pretty sure not many people can say "There's always next time" and literally means it, though.

It's what Kent settles on saying when Jack wakes up in that same hospital for the third time. He can always save 'Fuck you' for later.

Or maybe 'Fuck me' would be more appropriate.

-

It goes on like that for a while. Kent keeps waking up when the plane's about to land.

There's never really any time to talk to Jack. And what would Kent say anyway? 'I've been having dreams about stumbling upon your unconscious ass in various bathrooms'? 'Time keeps rewinding on me and I don't know why'?

So Kent improvises.

Jack throws up. Kent is very clear about what he thinks about the Aces. Neither of them goes first. Kent finds Jack in a bathroom stall.

Kent escorts Jack to a bathroom before he has a chance to throw up. The Aces pick Jack. Time jumps backward.

Kent throws up -- it's not that hard to do on cue, really. They both get to a bathroom where Jack follows suit. Jack goes first. Another rewinding.

Kent pulls Jack aside and tries to be as reassuring as he can. Jack tells him "I'm fine. Go do your interview." Three guesses where they end up.

Kent talks to Bob. Bob talks to Jack. Jack talks to no one. One guess where they end up.

Kent tells Bob to please keep an eye on Jack, and goes to tell the Aces GM to "pick Zimms. You don't wanna deal with me." Jack isn't with Bob when Kent gets back. Bob tells Kent Jack told him he just needed to go use the bathroom.

Kent tells Bob to please keep an eye on Jack at all times, please, and goes to tell the Aces representatives to "pick Zimms. You can't all be idiots." Jack's drafted first. It doesn't get further than that.

-

Kent's delightedly surprised to wake up on the day after their Memorial Cup celebration after almost losing hope of waking up somewhere other than on that damn flight.

After having 'relived' it twice, he's not sure how he expects it to turn out, this time.

He's sure it'll be the best time of his life, though, and like hell he's gonna let the looming dread of the draft or his weird fucked-up dreams ruin it.

Kent is very surprised when Jack tells him they should take some time off and that they can actually afford to do so. It's unheard of, honestly, not a thing Jack's been known to ever do at all. But Kent'll take it. Maybe reality is wilder than Kent's wildest imagination. And it's Jack who suggests they pick up their training after the draft so, really, Kent must see how this goes.

They don't stick to Quebec this time. Kent tells Jack he's so goddamn bored of Québécois, even though Kent's now profanely fluent and he loves Jack's French.

Jack produces a map of National Historic Sites of Canada out of nowhere.

They go on a road trip with no clear destination in mind, just that they'll be with each other.

Kent doesn't want to go to the Combine, but figures they have to. This is reality. This is the time that counts.

He feels weird comparing their scores to the times he dreamed the Combine happened.

He doesn't know how to feel when he looks up the scores of the other prospects and sees familiar numbers.

They go back on the road, this time with an airport as their destination. 'Like the last two times,' his mind supplies, and he feels cold all over.

Two nights before the draft, Kent doesn't sleep.

Jack doesn't, either, and asks Kent what's wrong.

They talk and talk and, in the end, they take a nap after breakfast.

-

The draft didn't come.

It's the day after their Mem Cup win again and the draft didn't come.

This time, Jack insists they go to Kent's house, claiming he hasn't spent an extended period of time with his family in a long while.

Kent's modest house doesn't have enough beds, they'll have to sleep on a ratty foldout, it'll fuck up their backs, Kent points out. Jack says he doesn't mind and goes to pack an air mattress and extra pillows and blankets and then another air mattress for backup.

It's nice. Kent didn't realize how much he misses his own family.

One lazy morning while still lying in Jack's full-body embrace, Kent realizes he has two families, his own and Jack's. It's a weird thought. The Zimmermanns and the Parsons are two different families. They are far apart socioeconomically. They don't function together. It's hard for them to even cross paths. But they are both his. Jack's never been his brother in the familial sense but Bob calls him son and Alicia mothers him all the time. And now Kent gets to share his own family with Jack. Maybe some day they will become one family.

The only downside to this trip is that they're camping in a very open living room. There's no privacy. There are work and school on weekdays, sure, but there are neighbors and it will be very bad to scare them with all the sex they want to have. It's a shame Kent's mom has never been big on curtains.

-

The days between Memorial Cup and the draft keep repeating, different each time but perfect every time.

It's always distinct despite some things staying the same. Kent doesn't know how or why but there are always things that happen differently, even when Kent tries to do the exact same.

But then again, Kent doesn't have the mental capacity to remember every sound he utters or every muscle he moves. And let's face it, between the two of them Kent's always been the spontaneous one. So maybe he's never succeeded in doing the exact same anyway.

Maybe he'll check the news, see if things halfway around the world happen differently or stay the same. Maybe when he's bored or something.

Kent scratches that train of thought because pfft, Kent never gets bored when Jack's around.

And Kent stops caring about whatever's been happening is, and just enjoys these thirty-four days with Jack.

-

(No one can dream this long, or this convoluted, or this tenacious. No one.)

-

Jack never says no when Kent suggests new things, doesn't protest, doesn't ask why, just goes along with him.

They don't go all out. The draft's still looming and there's still the Combine. But Kent's very intent on making the most of everything every time.

Kent also makes sure Jack packs a tent when they go visit the Parsons.

-

Kent's an idiot to think it'd last.

-

(Kent realizes there's another weird thing when he comes to think of it.

Waking up on the flight to the draft has been the worst. Kent's body never got enough sleep, having stayed up staring at Jack until morning. He's always tired and anxious, which makes him irritable and clouds his already-not-very-sensible judgment.

Waking up after celebrating their Mem Cup isn't ideal, either. He's always hangover and also tired from the game and the party and the after-party and so on and so forth and whatnot. But his body always feels renewed, still rattling and overloaded with excitement and exultation that their team won, that they've made it together.

No matter what fucked-up shit his mind remembers, his post-Mem-Cup body never fails to get him to enjoy good things whereas his pre-draft body always makes him want to just lie beside Jack and never get up.

It's like he's always discombobulated by the dissonance between the conflicting chronologies of his being. His mind remembers every series of events, his body only remembers one.

Kent doesn't know what that says about his immortal soul.)

-

Things never go well at the draft. It starts to feel like a comedy of errors, only it's not funny and it keeps repeating unerringly.

-

One time Kent tries to bring up the pills, carefully.

Time goes backward.

-

(He wonders if there's a right way for things to go. Maybe the universe has been trying to tell him something. Maybe time will keep repeating until he gets it right.)

-

'Fuck it,' he thinks as he splurges all his savings on one night. If Jack's gonna OD for the twenty-third time, it might as well happen in a fancier hotel bathroom.

-

Jack doesn't touch the pills the following time right after that night, which was the first occurrence of Kent locking the door and swallowing the rest of the bottle.

Jack still doesn't touch the pills the next time, either.

Or the next time.

Or the next.

'It'll last,' a part of Kent's brain reckons. 'Until it doesn't,' the other parts add.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter:
> 
> REPORTER 1: "Are we to assume that all Mr. Zimmermann does is eat, sleep, and breathe hockey and nothing else? That Mr. Zimmermann practices celibacy and the two of you've never actually touched dicks?"
> 
> K. PARSON: "Technically speaking, I kinda fall under the general category of hockey--"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coming out, homophobic bullshit, sexual indulgence, approximately in that order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions of violence

The thirty-fourth time, Kent grasps Jack's hand and doesn't let go.

They're both very surprised the Falconers don't care. Very surprised because all the other teams before the Falcs seem to care very much that Jack and Kent are probably fucking. Like, no one's asked them out right if they are fucking but they've been given pointed looks and the rumor mill has been grinding very loudly.

Kent's eyes never leave Jack from the moment Jack's hand leaves his to walk up the stage to the moment Jack disappears offstage and Kent can't see him anymore. Then Kent switches to praying for Jack to please be alright, please wait for him, he'll be there soon, the Falcs can't be the only non-stupid team in the NHL, and can someone just fucking call his name already?!?

Kent's extremely surprised the Schooners don't care, either.

Jack's waiting for him in the room backstage. Their reunion hug is fierce and crushing. Kent's prayer's answered. He'll never do the cross-his-heart-with-his-fingers-crossed thing ever again. Also, he makes a mental note to thank everyone in that fucking room for keeping Jack company.

Jack's hand reaches for Kent's after they pull apart. They stay joined. They don't let go.

When the door opens and they get pushed into the waiting ocean of predatory reporters, they don't let go.

.

REPORTER 1: "Since early this afternoon, there has been a rumor going around with regard to your sexual orientation, namely, that you're both homosexuals seeing as no heterosexual male can heterosexually hold another male's hand for an extended period of time without getting grossed out and needing to find a woman to have heterosexual sex with at the earliest convenience. Can you confirm the rumor that you are, in fact, super gay?"

K. PARSON: "Wow, all that and not one word about hockey, huh? Well, personally I plan on getting fucked by Zimms and sucking his dick for as long as he'll have me, but I guess I have no aversions to being intimate with a woman, so. Make of that what you will."

REPORTER 2: "And what about you, Mr. Zimmermann?"

J. ZIMMERMANN: "..." *stares blankly into indistinct shapeless mass of reporters and squeezes Parson's hand that hasn't yet been let go* "Same as Kenny."

REPORTER 3: "So basically you're saying you'd have to have had your dick inside at least one vagina to be a good athlete?"

K. PARSON: *makes a face of incredulity* "No, that is not even remotely what we're saying or true. I've enjoyed the sensation of having my dick inside a pussy, aka the only part of the human anatomy designed to accommodate the male organ of copulation, yes, but..." *looks to Zimmermann, who nods and gives Parson a small encouraging smile* "Zimms has been really focused on hockey, so..."

REPORTER 1: "Are we to assume that all Mr. Zimmermann does is eat, sleep, and breathe hockey and nothing else? That Mr. Zimmermann practices celibacy and the two of you've never actually touched dicks?"

K. PARSON: "Technically speaking, I kinda fall under the general category of hockey--"

REPORTER 3: "Are you implying that Mr. Zimmermann fucks hockey as well?"

REPORTER 2: "Mr. Zimmermann, is Mr. Parson the only person with whom you've ever had any sexual relationship?"

J. ZIMMERMANN: "There hasn't been anyone else." *looks intently into Parson's eyes* "Kenny is the only one for me."

ASSORTED, MOSTLY-FEMALE (and not necessarily sports-media-employed) REPORTERS: "Awwwww."

REPORTER 4: "Is fucking each other up the ass on a regular basis a major reason behind your unprecedented superior line chemistry? Is that why you've been arranged to room together on road trips?"

K. PARSON: "Definitely. Just ask our teammates."

REPORTER 5: "I think it's safe to say that there's a connection between your coming out right before the draft and your much-lower-than-projected draft positions. Do you have any comments? What would you like to say to the teams and the NHL community at large?"

K. PARSON: "We are very grateful for the Providence Falconers and the Seattle Schooners to have selected us as their respective first-round picks and are very excited for the opportunity to play for such great franchises. We are aware that we are the first out NHL draftees and as with most changes it may take some getting used to. We can assure everyone that our relationship will not affect our game and would like to ask those who may have doubts to please keep an open mind. As for the draft positions, our draft class consists of a very talented group of players and prospect rankings are subject to change and contingent on numerous different factors. Things could've turned out a lot of ways. Going first in the draft would've been such an honor but, ultimately, playing in the NHL has always been our dream and we have the Falcs and the Schooners to thank for the first step toward that dream."

.

Okay so maybe some of that isn't exactly how things were phrased but that's the gist of the interview, alright?

And like, one reporter asks Bob how he thinks the nature of the relationship between his son and his son's now-former teammate will further impact their respective careers. The other reporters are far more blunt and aggressive that Kent winces hearing some of the questions.

Bob tells them he's proud of them both.

.

"We'll show them, Zimms. We'll fucking show them," Kent repeats to Jack that night until Jack falls asleep.

.

Kent gets his first career hat trick in his first NHL game, plus an assist to boot.

Jack gets two goals in his first game, but it's also Jack's first five-point night so he's not doing too bad, either.

Come to think of it, Kent wishes the other teams had been stupid enough to let the Falcs have Kent as their second-round pick. That way, they can be together. And why the Schooners? Why can't it be somewhere closer? They can't get much more far apart than Providence and Seattle, which are literally on the opposite edges of the continent.

Still, there are phones and video-calls and it won't be forever.

Like, Kent and Jack make a point of seeing each other everyday via the power of technology. Despite their busy schedules and the three-hour time difference, they're both stubborn enough to manage to find at least a few minutes of everyday to 'see' each other.

Sometimes Jack stays ridiculously late just to congratulate Kent on his win or commiserate with him on his loss. Sometimes Kent wakes up stupidly early to watch Jack eat breakfast before the Falcs' stupidly early morning/dawn skate.

They don't let distance hinder their sex life, either. And it's Jack who insists on them having phone sex. On one hand, it's good because getting off with Jack is never not good. On the other hand, Jack is weird about having images of either of their dicks, moving or otherwise, captured by any device, let alone sent over any kind of networks.

"No dick pics, Kenny. Swear to me in front of this Mem-Cup-winning puck you'll never take any picture of your dick," Jack had said before they left for their respective training camps. When Kent demanded why, Jack described Kent's dick as "unfairly-good-looking, easily-identifiable" and bodily sprawled on Kent when all Kent did was laugh and laugh.

Kent sends Jack a pic of his come-streaked abs, and commends himself on having timed it well when Jack readily calls to inform Kent there isn't any part of Kent that's not easily identifiable. And then phone sex happens.

They'll make it work.

.

They're only rookies and they keep tearing it up. It's insane. It's unbelievable, borderline impossible, but it's happening. It's everything he'd ever thought it'd be and many fuck-tons more.

The haters hate and it's fine. The media's shit but the media's always been shit so it's also fine.

Correction: the media's not completely shit. There are lots and lots of doubts. They're still holding debates on how a couple of teenagers who love to get fucked up the ass can manage to tear each and every one of their opponents a new asshole. It's a big fucking joke, really. But the media also bring up the utter fucking joke of their draft positions on every possible occasion, unsubtly proclaiming how stupid those in charge of running NHL teams can be.

It's two months since the season began and it's not the Calder or the All-Stars everyone's talking about. It's the Art Ross and the Stanley Cup finals.

The media got the franchises that passed them up to address how the organizations were wrong to have thought that the unusually high mutual dependency they had shown at the draft directly reflected on their mental endurance under pressure and led to the franchise officials having doubts regarding their capacity and readiness for playing at the NHL level. No front office personnel ever utter a word about their gayness for each other being part of the decision.

The good and the bad kinda counterbalance each other and things stay more than fine.

.

That is, until Jack gets plowed with a blatantly illegal open-ice hit and then it's the fucking opposite of fine.

Jack says it's okay and comes live with Kent for a few months.

It's-- Kent plays and Jack cheers from his couch because the arena's bright and loud and Jack got a fucking massive concussion in his rookie year.

"It's okay," Jack keeps saying, and tells Kent to be careful.

Kent makes sure to be careful. He may be small for a hockey player but he's fast. He might not be smart in general but he's hockey-smart. There's no shortage of homophobic assholes in the NHL. They try to come after him from all sides and they try to fuck him up at every opportunity -- 'try' being the operative word. On ice, Kent's fucking fast. On ice, no one can catch up with him.

It's not on the ice he needs to worry about.

.

Kent wakes up in a hospital bed, Jack's in a hugely uncomfortable-looking chair beside him.

It's still the thirty-fourth time.

Jack asks him if he regrets coming out.

Kent says no, and "I wish you hadn't gotten hurt. I wish you never get hurt."

-

Kent wakes up, no IV stuck in his arm. His phone informs him it's his pre-game nap the night Jack got concussed.

"Pick up the phone, pick up, just pick up the goddamn phone," Kent chants like a mantra as his call keeps going to voicemail. There's a text from about half an hour ago from Jack, wishing Kent good luck on tonight's game and saying he's glad they're doing this together.

Kent's three hours behind.

He spends a useless amount of time trying to come up with a way to tell the Falconers' front office to... do what exactly? He doesn't know. And he almost doesn't go to his own game -- almost, because the last time Jack's text was different, and maybe that means history won't repeat itself this time.

Kent checks the news during his first intermission to see that Jack got the game-winning goal.

Jack is okay.

-

Sometimes Kent wakes up one day back. It happens intermittently, seemingly without rhymes or reasons. Although, once, it happens after Kent got surrounded and crushed in a huge pile-up in front of the net and caught a skate blade in his face/neck/carotid-artery area.

There was blood.

Maybe what happened might have been intentional. Kent's not sure but he thinks he had felt the goalie trapping his legs in place?

Maybe it was shitty bad fucking luck.

Or maybe it was just a dream.

Kent doesn't get to find out.

-

They have the support of their teams but they'd be fooling themselves if they thought of the hockey community as being diverse and accepting. Some people are unapologetic assholes and those people are everywhere and they are out to get them.

When asked if he's afraid about being targeted on the ice, Kent still answers with the usual shit about hockey being a contact sport and NHLers' professional conduct.

-

Kent talks to his own family often, calls, texts, video-chats, sends them e-mails, tells them he misses them a lot.

Alicia sends him care packages, chats with him from time to time on his days off, asks him how he's doing, says she's happy for him and Jack both. Bob calls him after games, leaves a message if Kent doesn't pick up, telling Kent he's proud and to keep up the good work.

The Zimmermanns come to cheer him on his game in Montreal. Kent had hoped he could get a hat trick but guesses three points aren't bad, either.

The tabloids have a field day.

-

Kent and Jack kiss on national television for the first time during warm-ups at their first ever NHL game against each other.

Kent's team wins but Jack comes crashing into him after anyway, their teammates chirping and making catcalls. They smile and chirp right back. Getting shit about their relationship is a good sign that their teams are okay with them.

The morning after, Kent wakes up plastered against Jack's back, his dick hard against the cleft of Jack's exceptional hockey butt.

They make out for a while, but it's not long before Kent asks Jack where he stashes his lube. They didn't have sex last night. They were gratifyingly tired from the game and there was no rush. Jack doesn't have a game today. Kent has a couple of days off and like hell he's flying back with his team.

It's been months since the last time they saw each other in person, and it'll be months before they get to see each other again. So Kent makes a point of making up for lost time, of preparing for the long road ahead, of reacquainting himself with the feeling of Jack, solid and tangible, cataloging every change in his body, of going slow, of thoroughly fucking him and making every thrust count, making it last. Until the air smells like them, until Jack's breathing out Kent's name and they're both shuddering with all the sensations, burning for what's building under their skin.

Afterward, Jack doesn't let Kent go, doesn't let Kent reach for the tissues he keeps on his nightstand, doesn't even let Kent pull out. Instead they trade deep, languid kisses, unwilling to even let breathing get in the way, like all they need is each other, until Kent's dick slips out by itself and they're hard for each other again.

During their second post-coital bliss of the morning and cradled in Jack's warmth, Kent falls back asleep between one breath and the next.

-

Kent wakes up in that same morning, Jack's grinding his perfect butt against Kent's hard-on.

They do it all over again.

-

Kent keeps waking up in that same morning.

He figures he can work with that.

Kent makes a show of opening himself up and then proceeds to sit on Jack's impossibly-tantalizing dick.

Jack is somehow already prepped and demands that Kent fuck him immediately.

Kent arranges them so he's caged beneath Jack, pulls him down with one hand to press their foreheads together, and surges up for kisses while he jerks them both off with the other, their sweat-slick bodies moving and grinding in the sleep-warmed bed.

His body doesn't remember getting spent.

-

Kent can't help himself. He's a competitive fucker. They both are. It's one of the reasons why they work so well together.

So, naturally, he has to make it a challenge to test the limits on how many orgasms they can wring out of each other before passing out.

.

Basking in the afterglow of their fifth round under the filtered late morning sunlight, Kent stomach growls.

And fuck, he doesn't know how long it's been since the last time he got to taste something other than Jack, the inside of Jack's mouth, the expanse of his body, the pre-come that never fails to leak out no matter how many times they've come, the burst of flavors when Kent gets Jack to come right on his tongue.

Maybe come-drunk is a real, literal thing.

"Hungry?" Jack perks up, an amused smile on his face and making a move to get out of the bed. Kent tightens his hold on him, reflexive. Kent's drunk on Jack, he decides. But then Jack's stomach groans and-- Kent would give up eating if it meant he'd get to keep Jack forever. But Jack's hungry, so Kent concurs they maybe should eat.

Kent whines when Jack reaches toward clothes. Not being naked is, like, the worst idea ever. They shuffle out of the bedroom, Kent clinging to Jack like a limpet. In the kitchen, Jack shows Kent a fully-stocked fridge and rolls his eyes when Kent refuses to take his hands off Jack even to get food.

They eat on the couch. Kent's seen this couch before during some of their video-chat sessions but never paid it any attention. It's a good couch, nothing to complain about. But Kent's mostly in Jack's lap while Jack feeds both of them and they watch the highlights from last night.

Kent's reminded again how anally obsessed the media is about how they're the first out and proud gay NHL players who are also rookies and competing for the Art Ross against each other -- each other, because not only they keep racking up points and one-upping one another, they keep holding the first and second spots to themselves with disheartening points ahead of the ever-changing-but-always-distant third.

He makes a mental note to check the internet at some point. But they've finished eating and right now riding Jack on this unchristened couch with the tv giving them praise and showing them kissing in the background is something Kent's in urgent need to experience.

He's still loose and slick enough from Jack's comprehensive fuckings earlier that they don't even need to go look for lube.

-

The sixty-ninth time, Kent makes a point of them 69ing as many times as they can without falling back asleep.

It shouldn't be special, they have sex a lot and Kent's been having non-stop sex with Jack for days, if not weeks. But it is, special, because it's Jack, and Jack is as special as Kent can hope to ever wish for.

-

Most of what people on the internet have been talking about their first game against each other isn't about hockey. Kent finds this out from where he's sitting between Jack's legs, Kent's back against Jack's chest.

Jack, for his part, is sucking at a ticklish spot under Kent's jaw, saying "Go on. Keep scrolling. Tell me what they say," which is utterly ridiculous. But Jack has one hand roaming across Kent's abdomen, fingers digging into the V of his hips, scratching into his happy trail, sliding along his abs, tracing the curve of his pecs, playing with his nipples. Jack's other hand is slowly jacking Kent's achingly hard dick with long, deliberate strokes. Kent moans and pushes his hips up, trying to fuck into Jack's loose fist. But then Jack moves the hand down to cup Kent's balls, rolls them a little.

"Fuck, Jack. I need--" Kent's words are swallowed as Jack brings their mouths together.

When Kent finally, finally gets to come, it's to Jack whispering "Got you, Kenny. Got you."

-

(It still feels like he's dreaming, even though Kent's pretty sure he's not. Whatever this is, it's not Kent's imagination. It's not exactly a time loop, either. He's not frozen in time. It's just that time keeps jumping backward for no discernible reason. Things don't make sense.)

-

"I miss playing hockey with you," Kent muses, looking up from where he's been tracing the ridges and grooves of Jack's abs with his tongue.

-

Jack drives him to the airport and walks with him through the terminal. They tries their best to be incognito but someone recognizes them anyway, and that opens a floodgate.

They are busy signing autographs and posing for pictures they don't see the first blow coming. The crowd scatters, revealing a group of large men out for their blood.

There are homophobic assholes everywhere, but still. It feels like a cosmic fucking joke.

They're too high profile. They got too cocky. They should have lain low, let their hockey speak for them, traveled with their teams, not made a spectacle of themselves.

-

He has a sinking feeling he'll never get to wake up in that apartment again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter:
> 
> "How's Vegas?" Kent asks before Jack could say hello.
> 
> "Hot. So, so hot, Kenny," Jack practically whines through the phone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there should be some sort of warnings here but I don't know what to put, so. Let that be the warning? Also feel free to tell me.

Kent wakes up. It's still morning.

On their flight to the draft.

Fuck.

.

At the draft, Jack's jittery. Kent sticks by his side and grasps his hand.

People start talking. The day rewinds.

-

"You ever think about skipping the draft and just becoming unrestricted free agents together?" Kent says to Jack on the plane.

Jack looks at him like he just said he wanted to switch to curling or something.

"I'm serious. Whatever teams draft us won't be dumb enough to let us go during restricted free agency no matter what ridiculous deals they'll have to match. It'll be years, more than half a decade at least, until we could play together on the same team again."

.

Jack's jittery. Kent sticks by his side and reaches for his hand. Jack pulls away.

They go through the motions without any accident. And if Kent lets his mouth run looser or his nerves come out more, it's nobody's business.

The Aces pick Jack, as they always should have.

Time jumps backward.

-

Kent goes first, can't believe it still feels thrilling after all this time, after all those other times. He lets the staff lead him to the room backstage and waits for Jack.

Jack gets to the room.

Jack gets to the room!

Jack's smiling at Kent! After they just got drafted!

They hug but it's brief and more bro-slapping but they stay close together as they congratulate their peers in the growing pool of so-fucking-elated NHL draftees.

.

The moment the staff let them out, the media descends on them like a diabolical flock of rabid vultures from the bowels of hell.

Like, seriously, all hell breaks loose.

The shouts of questions are deafening. The flashes are blinding. Bodies get ripped apart. (Okay, dragged apart.) Cameras and microphones get shoved into faces. The lights are baking hot.

There's no hand to hold on to, this time.

.

Here is a non-comprehensive list of questions that Kent got asked:

"What does beating your arch-rival Jack Zimmermann personally mean to you?"

'He's my best friend and I didn't beat him.'

"How does it feel to be chosen over your now-former teammate and best friend Jack Zimmermann?"

'Excited? Strangely chill? Like puking my guts out? You pick.'

"Will this affect the dynamic between you two? Are you and Mr. Zimmermann enemies now?"

'Fuck no!'

"What will happen at your first NHL game against each other?"

'I'll suck his dick right there on center ice. Make sure to get your cameras ready!'

"How do you feel to have proven fresh blood can beat legacy?"

'Whaaaaat.'

"Do you think the Aces just made a huge fucking mistake?"

'Yes. Fucking duh.' But no one asks Kent that.

"Given how close you are with Hockey Legend Bad Bob Zimmermann, how do you think he's feeling about this year's draft selections? Do you feel like a traitor considering how the Zimmermanns have welcomed you into their home? Will you be smiling when you see what's left of your 'best friend' after he got picked apart and ridiculed by not only the entire hockey world but everyone and their kitten as well?"

... fuck.

-

(Kent dreams sometimes. He can still dream. It's somewhat grounding to know he can still dream.

It's telling the dreams apart from reality that's the problem.)

-

Somewhere around the hundredth(?) time, Kent considers the possibility that maybe he's fated to fuck up every time.

The desire to win is always there. The urge to prove himself is always there. The impulse to toss out a 'Fuck you' to anyone who's ever looked down on him is always there.

More experienced and wiser are two very different states of being.

He's still reckless and unreasonable, still dumb and delusional. After all, he's never lived past his teen years. Kent doesn't think this is a dream anymore. It's way too long, way too strong, and way too convoluted to be just a series of dreams.

Jack's always there, and that's what counts. And at least Kent tries his best with Jack. Kent always does his best with Jack. Kent wants to be picked first overall, sure, but he knows he'll be equally happy if Jack goes first, and he can say that with confidence because he's lived it, several times. It's better with Jack. Even if Kent misses the draft to be with Jack there's still always next year.

Kent knows it's always better with Jack.

-

(Maybe this is how fate works against free will, through trials and repetitions until things go the way they're supposed to. It's kinda scary to think about, the idea that he's alone in all this, that something -- the universe itself, father time, God, the Hockey Gods, or even a random force of nature -- has singled him out and made him able to remember all that has happened. But he doesn't mind. He can keep trying, and this way he knows what works and what doesn't.)

-

Jack goes first overall, and is there in the backstage room.

Like all self-respecting lovesick teenager in his position would do, Kent throws himself at Jack.

"No hard feelings?" Jack's mouth smiles but his eyebrows frown. The other parts of his face either take sides or remain neutral. The overall effect is unabatedly cute.

"Nah. Being number two doesn't mean shit."

.

"How's Vegas?" Kent asks before Jack could say hello.

"Hot. So hot, Kenny," Jack practically whines through the phone.

.

Jack's apartment in Las Vegas is relatively small. The one in Providence was the same. And Jack gives almost the exact same answers when Kent prods him about it. "It's just me. I don't need that much space." "My butt doesn't need its own room, Kenny."

"You know it doesn't have to be just you, right?" Kent says after Jack finished giving him the video-tour.

"You don't room with anyone, either," Jack replies, his tone a little defensive. The bed Jack's sitting on looks weirdly similar to the one Kent video-conferencing-ly helped him choose from Seattle.

Kent decides against 'I'm not the one with a tendency to OD' and goes with "I like having my own space. It's something I never had as a kid. Also, I don't feel close enough to anyone to be living with them yet."

"Oh," Jack lets out, and appears to be contemplating something. "I feel like everyone's always watching me. I need somewhere to just... be, and not worry about what anyone else would think, you know? And my house always felt too big when I was a kid, so. This will do."

They make it through their respective training camps.

.

The Aces lose more than they win. Jack's performing well but you can't win games with just one line, let alone one player.

The media is hell-bent on blowing up the drama, saying shit like the Aces purposefully tanked for Jack and look where that got them. Nowhere, Oklahoma -- which is an actual place that actually exists?

Anyway, the point is Jack and Kent don't get the same treatment.

Jack is the prodigious son of a hockey legend, possesses magnificent genetics, is privileged, has had personal trainers, practices in private rinks, learned to skate before he could walk, the list goes on. Some even say Jack is a living proof of the Canadian Hockey Robot Conspiracy. Jack going first had been a foregone conclusion. Everything Jack accomplishes is expected. Every mistake Jack makes is a letdown. Jack works his ass off every single day and people think he's not dedicated enough. Too many goals and Jack's not a team player. Too many assists and Jack can't deliver. Jack can score a hat trick and still get blamed for the loss. It's fucking bullshit.

When it comes to Kent, everything is a miracle. It stings, not gonna lie. A poor, scrawny no-name starting at rock bottom. From White Trash to the American Dream! It's an overly dramatic hyperbole. Kent was never that poor. Sure, he's used to getting a new pile of obviously used gear every year but that's been the case for a lot of guys. Hockey is a very expensive sport. And Kent's family did manage, which a lot of families couldn't do for their kids. (Though he must admit that making friends was kinda hard when most of your peers were well-off and all the things they seemed to want to do involved the kind of money you felt guilty spending.)

For Kent, it's about fighting for recognition. But for Jack, it's about living up to nonsensical expectations.

Jack's miserable all the time. Having the weight of an entire franchise and the hopes and dreams of the hockey world on your shoulders would do that to you. Kent's carrying those things, too. He just wishes he could share all the extra bullshit Jack's carrying also.

,

It's a strange notion to wrap his mind around but being out and always having to look behind their backs was better in that it fucking demolished all this bullshit narrative. The media probes for any aberration and sticks to the ones that get people to tune in. The American dream is about a model wife and 2.5 children, nothing to do with a gay kid. Be the gay son of a hockey legend and people automatically write you off as incompetent, soft. People thought liking to get fucked meant their unforeseen performance was a stroke of luck that would run out eventually. Being gay had meant they were the underdogs and people got off on that shit so that was what the media latched on to. To Jack and Kent, all the bullshit back then was a matter of proving people wrong. The Falcs and the Schooners having been more competent than the Aces also helped a lot.

If only they hadn't been targeted it would've been near perfect -- although the power plays did help, too.

.

Kent flops down onto Jack's bed, pulling him in for a kiss, wet and sloppy. Kent had thought they wouldn't be able to stop kissing and would have to navigate blindly to the couch or maybe just fuck against the front door, but in reality Jack's too sensible for that. Instead, Kent lost most of his clothes somewhere along the way to the bedroom, and was in the process of getting rid of Jack's pants and underwear when the back of his knees hit the mattress.

They're fumbling to get the rest of their clothes off. Jack's tie is still loose around his neck and Kent hopes Jack's not too attached to this particular dress shirt because Kent kinda ripped it while trying to get it out of the way.

It doesn't take long before Jack lubes up and pushes in -- Jack's reaction when he found out Kent had already prepped himself after waking up from his pre-game nap was something to savor in and of itself.

They're pressed together. Jack's fucking him in earnest, lacing their fingers and pressing their hands down on the bed above their heads, breathing hard into where Kent's shoulder meets his neck.

Kent's so close. Jack's game-winner was so filthy Kent almost came watching from the bench.

"Kenny," Jack-- sobs?

"Zimms?" Kent croaks out. "Jack, what's wrong?" Jack shakes his head, his hips still moving, his hands squeezing Kent's own hard enough to hurt. "Jack, what--"

Jack stops abruptly. The crook of Kent's neck starts to get wet. Jack is--

Kent stays absolutely still, is afraid to even breathe too much, looks at the ceiling and tries not to freak out. What else do you do when the love of your life stops mid-fuck to cry?

Slowly, Jack's hands become slack. And Kent unlaces their fingers so he can hold Jack in his arms. Jack moves to interlace a hand in Kent's hair, slides the other under Kent's back, pinning Kent with all his weight.

They're both still hard. Apparently, boners don't care about emotional breakdowns.

"I don't think I can do this," is what Jack eventually stutters into Kent's neck. "Everything's a lot. The show, the media, the team, my dad's shadow, being here, being me, you."

"Me?" Kent exhales, woozy and jarred, his blood suddenly gone cold.

Jack nods, face still buried. "You are my best friend in the whole world, the one I turn to for comfort, for assurance, for solace. You are also my biggest competition, what I picture when I need motivation, someone to overcome. You are my family, my boyfriend. Us being together is what's gonna ruin both of our careers. You are the only one I've ever been intimate with, the only one I've gotten off to. I don't need anyone else. Your voice is more than enough. My memories of you are enough. Your presence is so overwhelming I feel heady whenever I'm in your proximity. We've got our own accomplishments and our own crosses to bear. I'm happy for you. I'm jealous of you. I wanna be with you. I wanna be you. I still look for you on the ice, off the ice. I-- Everything I do is never good enough. You are what I can't have. I don't know how you can love me when I don't even like myself. I--"

"What can I do?" Kent's voice cracks as he tries to hold back his own tears. It's a losing battle. "How do I--"

"I don't know. I love playing hockey but being in the show is killing me. I love my dad but I hate being his son. I wanna be with you, Kenny, I do. It's just..." Jack trails off into sniffles, body going lax like all the energy got drained out of him.

"Jack..." Kent begins but for the life of him can't come up with what to say next and looking at the blurry ceiling doesn't help, like, at all. So he just holds Jack as best he can and hopes it's good enough, hopes Kent's enough.

Jack's letting Kent take his weight. Kent takes comfort in that.

-

He will get it right. One of these days, he'll fucking get it right and it will fucking stick.

Things always change. Sometimes small, sometimes big, they keep changing.

Maybe every little thing he does has its way to affect everything else. Like with hockey. It doesn't matter if you know which way your opponent is gonna go because said opponent will change his course the instant he notices you anticipating his move.

Or maybe it's fated. Maybe Kent's just fated to never live past his teenhood. Maybe Jack's fated to always have to relive all this bullshit.

Or maybe the universe just gets off on fucking with him.

-

(Sometimes when Kent's alone, he just stands naked in front of a mirror and looks at the fucker staring back, cataloging his body, wishing for something -- scars, maybe -- some sort of proof that what he's experienced is real. Kent's not sure how old he is anymore. There's no way to tell, physically or mentally. His body ages as time passes, yes, but it de-ages with time as well. His mind remembers things that have happened, or will have happened, but they're just chronologies of events, with no real sense of the passage of time.

He's still young, at least that much he knows, and his memories are still vivid, which is comforting -- they're still there, Jack's still there. He doesn't want to think about the day when he'll wake up and realize they also fade with time the way memories do.)

-

Kent wakes up tangled with Jack.

His body's buzzing and, even though it's been a long time for him, he still remembers the thrills from winning the Mem Cup.

This must be it. This time things will work out. This time he will get it right.

.

The pills make a triumphant return.

.

"I don't know what to do anymore," Kent sobs in a hospital lobby.

With a firm hand on Kent's shoulder, Bob tells him to go to the draft.

Kent goes.

.

Somewhere in an empty arena hallway, Kent pulls off his newly-acquired Aces snapback and hits call.

Jack doesn't answer.

.

Still somewhere in the arena, Kent calls again.

Jack still doesn't answer.

Bob tells Kent Jack's alright and congratulates Kent on the draft.

.

In a fetal position alone in some hotel bed, Kent calls.

Still, Jack doesn't answer.

The urge to scream 'Fuck you' comes back.

.

When it's time for Kent to leave Montreal and Jack still doesn't answer, Kent goes to see his own family.

His first night there, he sleeps on the floor. The foldout is really that bad.

The next day, he goes out and invests some money in a nice air mattress that takes him five stores and two towns over to hunt down.

It helps, kinda.

.

He still talks to Bob, who tells him Jack's in rehab and will be in rehab for quite some time.

The Aces fly Kent to Vegas for media stuff a week before training camp starts.

The desert is hot and has a lot of sand.

.

The apartment is empty when he moves in.

He spends a few hours lying on the bedroom floor, looking at the ceiling.

.

Kent debuts in the NHL.

There's a lot of hockey to play and no time to mope.

Somewhere while Kent's tearing it up, Jack goes home from rehab.

Jack doesn't answer.

.

Kent settles into Vegas, or Vegas settles into him. He's not sure which.

The Aces are kinda building around him, which is a lot to take in. It's working, though. Kent's not used to playing center but they all work hard and they get better and better. His line starts to click with the D corps and is shaping up to be, like, one of the most destructive lines in the league.

Las Vegas the city is... not as he expected. There's gambling and nightlife and general excess, yes, but he didn't expect much of anything in terms of anyone giving any shit about hockey. It's nice to be surprised sometimes.

There are enough Canadians on the team for Canadian Thanksgiving to be a thing. Compared to that, celebrating American Thanksgiving feels weird.

A winter without snow is even weirder.

.

The Calder goes to Kent. No one says anything about there being any competition, just lots of what-ifs.

Bob is there to congratulate him, and by 'there' Kent means on the stage as Bob presents it to him.

Kent doesn't call Jack.

.

Kent has his first five-goal game.

Kent has his first eight-point night.

Kent wins his first Art Ross.

And his first Rocket.

And another Hart.

Also he picks up gold at Worlds.

And in the World Cup.

Kent lives to see his twenties for the first time and is already an NHL team captain.

There's never any word from Jack.

Kent wonders if this is how it's supposed to be.

.

Kent never heard of Samwell before in his life, and yet.

.

Kent wins the Stanley Cup (and the Conn Smythe, but everyone treats that like it's a given). He brings the Cup to Jack on his Cup day.

Back in juniors, they had talked about this, had known one of them might win it first before they could win it together, had planned to celebrate it together even though one of them might not be able to touch it yet. Kent had dreams about this over the past years, imagined what it would be like. Maybe it'd remind Jack of how much he loved major-league hockey, and by extension how once he'd liked having Kent on his wing in the Q. Maybe Jack would smile the way he used to and proclaim "Next time, Kenny. Next time," like there's no doubt. Maybe he'd smooth out Kent's cowlick while whispering soft congrats. Maybe he'd even eat colorful cereal out of the Cup with Kent, careful not to make any contact, like how he had once joked about.

It all seemed realistic at the time.

.

Kent goes to convince Jack to sign with the Aces.

He had plans, really, with several contingencies, even.

What Kent wouldn't do for a do-over.

.

He's been trying to find a way to trigger another reset, reasons behind each one that has happened, but so far it hasn't lead to anything.

It's not sleeping, Kent's slept fine without jumping back in time. It's also not death. Kent doesn't remember being dead. Although there's a few times he was dying, he thinks? But no, a lot of the times it happened, Kent was awake.

For a while, he thought him regretting things triggered it because, obviously, duh, that had to be it, right?

Except, no, it's not regret. Kent's sure because-- Well, mostly because of that morning. God, that one repeating morning in Providence with Jack.

'Why' had always been the most pressing question -- why it kept happening, why it happened at all.

But at this point, Kent wishes he knew 'How'.

.

("I'm sorry. I'm so, so fucking sorry. I'll be better. They're a bunch of fucking morons. I can go second. I can go in the seventh round. I can drop out of the fucking draft. I don't really care. Just please...")

.

Kent's lived to lift his fourth Stanley Cup. Time hasn't jumped back in over a decade. This is the furthest he's ever been to the future yet.

To be honest, he's not a fan of being in his thirties. It's been good for the most part. He has his fair share of injuries but not serious ones, or maybe serious ones but not any that he couldn't recover from (not ones that left scars, even -- the fucker that's been staring back at him from the other side of the mirror still looks the same). He knows he's been luckier than most. He still plays well. Hell, he's still the best player in the league, if the way he continues to fuck everyone up in the All-Star skills competition year after year is anything to go by.

He has more awards and accolades than he ever dreamed of. First overall pick, Calder winner, member of the Triple Gold Club. He's won multiple Art Ross, Conn Smythe, Rocket, Hart, Lindsey, you name it. Some of those he's won enough times to become the player with the most wins in NHL history. Everyone who knows anything about the hockey world knows his name. Also he won an Emmy, because why not.

He's the holder of so many fucking records he's lost count. His name is right up there with the best living hockey players, maybe even the best hockey players. The NHL has been good for him. The Aces have been good for him. Vegas has been good for him. The media, the fans, even the haters, they've all been good for him. His teammates are one of the best groups of people he's ever known. They look up to him, look out for him, treat him like family. And he's made friends all around, across professional sports leagues, in film, music, fashion, and other extravagant-egotistic-ravishing industries, everywhere he goes, really, great fucking friends. It's just--

He doesn't get Jack.

Jack, who overdosed, didn't get drafted, and spent time in rehab. Jack, who screened Kent's calls, cut Kent out of his life, and went to university. Jack, who signed with the Falconers and played his hockey without Kent. Jack, who got injured, retired, and disappeared from the face of the earth.

And Kent-- At least Kent was there when Jack won the Cup, because like hell was he gonna let the Schooners take away his chance to face Jack in the Stanley Cup Finals.

Kent dodges as someone opens another champagne, then picks up his phone to call Jack. It goes straight to voicemail.

He makes his round to congratulate everyone again and then excuses himself.

He goes back to his apartment -- his, it's been a long time -- and spends... let's just say 'a while' trying to call Jack.

He's tired, he's hungry, and maybe a little drunk. Okay, a lot drunk. Jack doesn't answer.

He's so goddamn tired and his everything feels sore. There's a bottle of sleeping pills in his medicine cabinet, which also houses various prescription-strength painkillers. Drunk-dialing is never a good idea, among other things.

Kent hits call again. He knows Jack won't pick up but it's still nice to hear Jack's voice, even if it's just from a recording.

Jack not saying he'll call back doesn't hurt, only aches a little.

Kent doesn't know if it'll work. Maybe he'd used them all and that'd been it, no more do-overs. Maybe all those times were all just really vivid, really fucked-up dreams. Maybe this is reality. Maybe this is how it's gonna be and he's gonna have to make do with the rest of his life without. Maybe this is the life he gets.

Fuck. What if this is the only life he gets.

It's not like he doesn't care, because he does. But Kent's always been one who goes for what he wants. The compulsion to be better is always there. He always has to try. The irresistible impulse to win always wins.

And like, it worked for Jack, always coming out of it unscathed and all, so.

He downs the pills with the most expensive bottle of booze someone's given him and hits call again, because--

Well, just because.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said three but just hear me out. Four. FOUR. I have a lot of feelings, okay?
> 
> Also, here's the beginning of one of the paragraphs I couldn't bring myself to finish:
> 
> The tiny blond on Jack's school team seems nice. Kent wonders if Jack fucks the guy and thinks of him.


	4. Chapter 4

(He doesn't concern himself with the truth. If time has taught him anything, it's that the truth is variable. Actuality is not absolute. Reality is relative. Things change, they always do. Things can be different even by staying the same. Time does that, no exceptions.

That's the constant aspect of time. It always does its thing.)

-

Kent wakes up in the dark. 4:34 AM, his phone reads. The day before his fourth Cup win.

He spends the next couple of hours theorizing whether more pills would take him back further, how much he would need.

The bottles are sitting on the coffee table when his phone rings. Kent lets it go to voicemail. Whoever's calling can wait until he figures this turning-back-time shit out.

It rings again and keeps ringing. And when Kent remembers it's still charging on his nightstand, he goes to turn it off.

It's Jack.

Whatthefuck.

After years of radio silence, more than a decade of having to make it on his own, out of fucking nowhere, Jack calls him.

Kent's hands are trembling -- the best and worst kind of adrenaline rush -- as he fumbles to answer, scolding himself for not having set a custom ringtone for the love of his fucking life. What kind of pining fucker is he? A shitty one, evidently.

The seconds tick by while neither of them says anything, only silence. Kent starts to wonder if the call is just his mind playing tricks on him as the moment stretches out, frozen.

And then "Hey, Parse. Thought I'd wish you good luck, not that you need it..." hits him like a physical blow, makes him sit down on the edge of the bed, chest convulsing, body stricken.

'Why now? After all these years of pretending I don't exist,' Kent wants to ask, but doesn't. 'I've been doing just fine. No thanks to you,' Kent wants to lie, but doesn't. 'What do you want? You were the one who gave up,' Kent wants to retort, but doesn't. Most of all, Kent wants to say 'Fuck you' because, really, fuck Jack. And some of Kent's thoughts must have slipped out because Kent can hear Jack makes those sounds like when he's trying not to fall apart and-- Yeah, okay. Fuck Kent, too, for knowing exactly what expression Jack's wearing and fuck Kent's life for it still having the same effect on him.

But neither of them can take it back.

Even if time rewinds itself again, Kent will always remember that Jack's chosen to do this to him, even just this once, and that he's made Jack hate him somehow, that they've hurt each other time and time again.

"Come lift the Cup with me," Kent says in the end. It's not like there's any reason not to anymore.

.

Jack comes meet him before the game. Kent puts him in the box.

It's very distracting, but fuck if Kent's gonna let anything ruin this. Jack's here, watching, rooting for him, cheering for him. Kent's gonna win the Cup for Jack, bring the Cup to him. They're gonna lift it together.

.

Kent kisses Jack under the Cup. No, that's not right. Kent doesn't just kiss Jack, Jack meets him halfway. It feels better than he ever imagined it would.

"Congrats," Jack says, a small, vulnerable smile on his face. "I'm happy for you. You deserve to be happy."

'I'd be happier if I got to win it with you,' Kent doesn't say. They lower the Cup down. Kent hands it to one of his teammates, and then he kisses Jack again.

"I'm grateful for all I've accomplished, Jack, and I'm not not happy," is what Kent settles on. "I'm happy I get to lift the Stanley Cup with you. I just... I miss you. I wish you'd always been here."

-

Kent wakes up to his phone ringing.

It's Jack, asking if he could come see Kent win his third Cup.

Kent says yes, of course, even though he doesn't remember exactly how his team won.

It doesn't matter. Jack's with him. Kent wins it again.

-

Kent wakes up in an unfamiliar hotel bed and checks his phone. His former phone. It's all very normal.

Like, he's been surgically attached to cellphones for fuck knows how long. What can he say? He enjoys little things like knowing at which point in time and where on earth he just comes to -- even back when he couldn't afford GPS, one out of two ain't bad.

It's Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals in Providence, the game Jack won his first Cup.

And Kent was-- is the opposing captain.

.

Kent wonders if it's cheating when he still remembers how things went shot by shot, and then mentally punches himself when he realizes he wants to let Jack win.

It's different this time. From the moment Jack gives Kent a hesitant smile during warm-ups to the way Jack meets Kent's gaze from underneath his visor in the face-offs.

The game's still brutal and hard fought, a series of exhausting and heartening battles, and they drag it to the second OT before Jack scores the game-winning goal.

In the handshake line after Kent gives his props, Jack visibly swallows, something dissolving inside him, and then asks "Would you stay and lift the Cup with me?"

And like, "Fuck you." Because what else would Kent say? And then he pulls Jack into a sweaty, life-affirming hug and sighs "Of course, Zimms. Anything for you." Kent'd stay forever if Jack let him.

.

Kent never knows why people call any crowded and chaotic place a zoo. A zoo has order. The animal are in their designated enclosures. Parents keep their children close. There are zookeepers and security guards to maintain some customary state. His point is, he's pretty sure the most disorderly zoo would be less of an utter disorder than the post-Cup scrum he's currently in the middle of.

People swarm around him, talking to him, taking pictures with him, and asking him for autographs -- some of them on Jack's Falcs jerseys no less. They, reporters especially, keep asking him if he let Jack steal what would be the game-winning puck on purpose, to which Kent response is "Have you seen the fucking game?" Like, Kent got a hat trick for fuck's sake. He didn't have to make it that believable if he were gonna let Jack win.

Kent's still in full gear minus the helmet when Bob and Alicia comes to hug him. And then Jack comes back with a bunch of people from his Samwell team. Pornstache guy is as erudite as always. The tiny blond offers to bake Kent pies and asks Kent what his favorite is. The giant blond is really loud with his consolation -- come to think of it, this guy and his buddy might be the owners of those voices Kent kept hearing from the crowd of 20,000. The flip-cup girl says she'll play and let him win if he wants, seeing as he just lost the Stanley Cup. Kent kinda gets why Jack likes them.

Still on the ice, Jack leans in, shy and uncertain. Kent meets him halfway, endeared and assuring. They keep it mostly PG, mindful that the rest of the world still exists and there are cameras everywhere. "Wanna get out of here?" It's Jack who asks, their foreheads pressed together. And yeah, Kent wants.

.

They don't talk during the drive, or in the elevator. Kent's brain is too busy being filled with fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckJackaskedmetohisapartmentthefuckdoIdo that it nearly short-circuits when Jack opens the door and--

It's the same apartment.

Well, not really. Jack's apartment building is the same one from before -- a fact that Kent didn't realize because it'd been dark both times he caught a ride here. The apartment itself is on a different floor but it still faces the same view and has the same layout.

The fridge is fully stocked when Jack opens it to offer Kent a drink. The tv is different, bigger, a decade more futuristic. The couch is worn but otherwise looks the same.

The couch also feels the same when Kent collapses onto it, closing his eyes and breathing manually for half a moment.

A tentative hand comes to rest on his knee.

"You just won the Cup against my team. Now you want my dick?" Kent opens one eye to half-glare at Jack.

"No. I--" Jack pulls away like he's on fire, causing the familiar-looking coffee table to screech.

Kent huffs out a laugh. "Just kidding. Like I'd deny a Stanley Cup champion's offer to suck my dick."

"Kenny," Jack's face relaxes. "I was just gonna ask if you were alright."

"I am." Kent slowly leans forward and puts a hand on Jack's shoulder. "I'm happy for you, Zimms. I really am. You deserve the win."

Jack's smile is radiant, then Jack's mouth curves gingerly into a smirk. "I promise I'll give you as many blowjobs as you like but..." A flush creeps up his neck and over his cheeks as he says it. "Would you let me ride you first?"

Kent laughs out loud, fond and foolhardy. "Sure, Zimms. Wanna do it while the tv replays your highlight reel? Your season montage?"

They should talk, really, but like, Jack's in a very good place right now, and like, sex! Sex with Jack!!! So like, talking can wait, right?

-

Kent doesn't wake up the morning after.

It's nothing bad. He just wakes up before Game 6 again.

He doesn't mind, not even a little. When, if ever, will he get a chance to play Jack for the Stanley Cup again?

.

During warm-ups, Jack skates by and stands a few feet from Kent, looking very awkward.

Kent waits for Jack to say something, only for Jack to stay silent and look even more awkward.

Not that Kent doesn't like gazing soulfully into Jack's eyes, but there's a chance a flying puck might hit one of them in the face if this continues on for much longer. Before Kent knows it, his mouth grins and utters "Hey, Zimms. Didja miss me?"

.

The game's won in regulation. Jack's waiting in the hallway when Kent comes out of the visitor's locker room. "I'll, uh... see you in Vegas?"

"Fuck yeah, you will," Kent affirms as he goes in for a crushing hug.

The entire plane ride back is productively spent picking out a suitably apropos ringtone for Jack.

.

The Aces win Game 7.

Jack looks genuinely happy despite Kent just robbing him of his first chance at lifting the Cup. Bob and Alicia do, too. And Kent is-- Well, Kent's seen Jack won this particular year's Cup twice already so he only feel a lot guilty instead of infinitely so. Wait. Does this count as Kent's fifth time winning the Cup? Seventh?

.

After getting soaked in champagne and going through other just-fucking-won-the-Stanley-Cup essentials, Kent begs off the party and drives Jack back to his apartment.

They make small talk along the way but Jack goes quiet when they almost reach the building.

Jack's still quiet while Kent fumbles to get the front door open.

To be honest, Kent's been anticipating a lot of things but not--

"I'm sorry, Kenny, I fucked up. I didn't know. I'm sorry I keep fucking up. You deserve better. God, Kenny, you-- I would take it all back but I don't think I can. I'm sorry," Jack says like a mantra from where he's curled up into a ball in Kent's living room.

'What is it with this apartment and Jack having a breakdown?' Kent thinks to himself as he sits on the floor and lets Jack sob into his chest. Kent's been here only once when Jack lived in it but that plus the multitude of times they video-chatted were enough for Kent to know that it resembled Jack's old Providence apartment, which also was what Jack's new Providence apartment looked like from what Kent could tell when Jack took Kent back after Jack won this year's Cup before this reset, which also is what this apartment looks like now, furnishings and stuff-wise. Kent even ordered some stuff from New England, and he's kept it this way despite all the chirps from his teammates because it reminds him of Jack. The apartments have all looked the same, and clearly Jack likes them. Why else would Jack choose to live in a place just like it time and time again if he doesn't like the interior decoration. And Jack lived here for months, before. What's the discrepancy here? Why is this one differ--

Wait. Why is this one different? Jack's here, clutching Kent like a lifeline. And Kent's doing the same thing right back, but like, what made Jack open up to Kent this time? And the time before? Jack wouldn't even meet Kent's eyes in the face-offs the first time they played for the Cup. Come to think of it, what made Jack call a day before Kent won his fourth Cup? And also his third Cup? There's no way anything Kent did would be able to make those times different from how they'd happened before.

Then it fucking dawns on him.

The long succession of times Jack didn't overdose lasted from the time Kent overdosed to the one last time Jack did. Jack started going through with the draft after Kent refused to get drafted without him. Time kept rewinding when Jack got drafted first. Jack never let Kent hold his hand through the draft after the time they unwittingly came out. Jack didn't get concussed in Providence the second time even though Kent hadn't gotten a chance to warn him about the hit. Everyone's score at the Combine stayed the same except theirs.

Kent cannot believe what an idiot he's been.

The answer's been there, right in front of him all along.

.

.

.

"I definitely wanna keep playing you for the Cup, and like, I don't mind winning as long as you play your fucking heart out," Kent says to Jack later, much later, after a lot is said and done, after learning everything they can be. "Oh, and you owe me, like, a decade's worth of sex in this apartment at least, I hope you know that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more to this thing, like, unfinished in-betweens and epilogue and such, but they're mangled and I can't seem to whip any into shape, so. This is it... for now?
> 
> If you're wondering about the magical realism aspect of this, I have some backstory and world-building stuff that got cut off because they got in the way of the main story. (I hope I did alright at hinting the reveal every now and then. (Someone already figured it out since ch.2 so I guess I haven't been very subtle. *blushes*)) And like, I think it'll be better explained from Jack's POV?
> 
> Anyway, please leave kudos if you enjoyed. Better yet, why not also leave comments! I'd love to know what you think!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Providential Aids](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20457755) by [dendriax](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendriax/pseuds/dendriax)




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